


A Careguide for Sick Quartermasters

by Only_1_Truth, roseforthethorns



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, James is a caring soul, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Q isn't sure what to do with that, Sick Character, Sickfic, Tooth-rotting fluff all around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-05 02:29:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17316371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseforthethorns/pseuds/roseforthethorns
Summary: When Q gets sick enough to be sent home by Eve, the last thing he expects is to be given a babysitter.  He also doesn’t expect that babysitter to be a 00-agent… since agents are usually known for their ability to harm rather than heal.





	A Careguide for Sick Quartermasters

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Truth: I once again got the pleasure of co-writing with the ever-lovely roseforthethorns. Her Q is a delight (okay, actually he's ill and stroppy... but I still love how roseforthethorns writes him), and I hope that you enjoy reading him as much as I enjoyed writing Bond giving him some love <3 
> 
> Many thanks to MinMu for beta-reading and making everything legible and pretty!

 

 

If Moneypenny hadn’t driven him home herself, Q was starting to doubt he could’ve taken the Tube. He barely managed to lock the door behind him before a particularly violent shiver tore through his body, followed almost immediately by a hot flash. Q managed to set his messenger bag down and toe off his shoes before he started shivering in earnest. How he had managed to get sick in his haven at the centre of Q-Branch he didn’t know. Probably 006. Probably. The sly bastard had been sneezing earlier that week in the agents’ break room; it was probably only a matter of time.

 

Q glanced in the direction of the kitchen, debating whether tea was worth it when he shivered again. His teeth were starting to chatter, and there was a dull, throbbing ache behind his right eye. With a groan and a muttered swear about “disease ridden agents”, Q shuffled to his room instead. He barely managed to change into his pyjama bottoms before curling up in bed and burrowing under several blankets. Everything was beginning to hurt with the same throbbing ache in his head.

 

He lay there for what felt like hours, unable to sleep or summon the strength to get up. His throat was dry enough to burn with each inhale, and with every passing second he shivered more violently. _I’ll send Alec out with paperclips next time_ , Q thought as another shiver left his teeth chattering. He really ought to get some water, but even the tap on the bathroom felt too far away to be feasible. He heard his mobile buzz a few times, but his arms wouldn’t move towards the side table. God. If anyone saw the Quartermaster of MI6 laid this low, he would never have their respect again.

 

The buzzing persisted.  Apparently Q’s not answering the first buzzes had made the person on the other end think that he was in grave peril.  

 

With a very frustrated, put-upon groan, Q freed his arm from the blankets and picked up the buzzing mobile. Moneypenny. Great.

 

“‘Lo?” He croaked as he answered the call. “Go ‘way.”

 

“Wow, you really are dying,” she immediately confirmed Q’s suspicions, although her voice was very sarcastic for a woman who thought her friend was perishing, “Well, I suppose I’m glad then that I’m calling to ask forgiveness instead of permission.”  

 

“What? Eve… what?” Q repeated stupidly. He could hardly focus on holding the phone, much less on what she was saying.

 

There was a sad sigh on the end of the line that sounded vaguely pitying.  “I was calling to say that you looked a bit awful, so I’d sent Bond to check on you,” she finally explained bluntly.  “I’m glad I didn’t bother to call and ask first if that was all right, because it sounds like you might give up the ghost before he even arrives with soup.”  

 

Q blinked as he tried to grasp what Eve had just said. “You… you’ve sent… _EVE!_ ” He tried to scold but his voice cracked and he doubled up in a bout of a very hacking, painful cough.

 

“I’m going to text him and tell him to hurry,” was Eve’s chosen reply to this.  

 

Q couldn’t recover enough from the coughing to tell her exactly where she could shove that text, and by the time he had managed to gasp several lungfuls of air, Eve had rung off. And if he had heard her right, she had sent James bloody buggering Bond. To his flat. While he was _sick_.

 

Alec would get paperclips. Eve was going to get loose staples and upturned pushpins.

 

Somewhere in plotting evil revenge against Eve, it occurred to Q that in his sick daze he may have forgotten to lock the door… which saw him forcing himself down the hall and hugging the plaster for support as he made his way back to the front of the flat. He was _not_ going to let some stroppy agent into his space to ruin his illness and invade his life beyond any retrievable point. He had enough difficulty handling Bond on missions; he didn’t need Bond in his daily life too.

 

Q nearly made it. Nearly. He might have gotten there in time to turn on the alarm system had he not tripped over his own feet and landed half on the sofa with the wind knocked out of him.

 

Still, it turned out that Q actually had locked the door.  Deadbolt and everything - it was visibly closed to intruders.  Nonetheless, in the time it took Q to get into at least a half-sensible sitting position on the sofa, there was a quiet scritching noise at his door, followed by a quiet _snick_ as the deadbolt magically withdrew.  The rest of the door opened a beat later, permitting a familiar face with keen blue eyes that did the same sort of sweep of the room that Q had seen many a time when James was making sure a room was clear of enemies.  That meant those blue eyes landed pretty quickly on Q, eyebrows raising.  “What are you doing sitting in the dark, Q?” James asked as if he hadn’t just picked Q’s locks and let himself in.  

 

“Trying to keep you out,” Q grumbled, slightly unnerved at how quickly James had gotten in. He needed better locks. And a taser. “What are you doing in my flat?”

 

James had been only partway in, a shadow lingering in an already dark doorway, but now he entered the rest of the way.  Q was reminded of a vampire, albeit one who had somehow heard ‘Please, come in’ somewhere in Q’s stroppy tone.  A carton of something was revealed in his right hand.  “I’m actually on a mission of mercy,” he said calmly, even as he blatantly looked around for a light-switch, finding one a beat later, “Moneypenny said that you had the plague, and would surely die hungry and alone if I didn’t drop by with soup.”  

 

“‘M not dying. I’m-” But of course, the word that was meant to be “fine” turned into another rough, painful cough. He couldn’t even manage to cough in Bond’s general direction, which might have made him feel ever so slightly better. “Close-close the door,” he rasped as he got his breath back.

 

That, at least, seemed to be an order James could obey: he kicked it shut with one foot, all the while watching Q with that one eyebrow still raised.  “If you’re not dying, you’re sure doing a good impression of it,” he noted.  

 

“Bite me, 007,” Q growled as he put all his energy into standing up and staying vertical. He levelled his best glare at the agent standing by the door before moving towards his room and promptly tripping again to land on the floor, swearing and coughing in alternate breaths.

 

There had been no noise, yet somehow James fucking Bond was right by his side.  He shouldn’t have moved this quietly, for a grown man of his build, yet somehow here he was, on one knee, putting the tupperware container of soup on the floor so that he could get a hand on Q’s upper arm.  The other hand, surprisingly, came to rest on Q’s nape, exerting gently downward pressure.  “How about you just stay put for a second, Q?” he suggested carefully in his low voice, “Jumping to your feet right now won’t do you much good, I’m afraid, especially if you just end right back up on the floor again.”  

 

Q sat down, pouting and determinedly not looking at James. “Fine. Because it’s comfortable here,” he added, and not because his head was spinning from all the coughing. He certainly wasn’t paying attention to the particular pressure and texture of James’ hand against his skin and how grounding it was to have that support. “Eve should mind her own business.”

 

Settling down more comfortably on his haunches, the agent, surprisingly, agreed, “True.  But then again, she is an agent of MI6.”  Powerful shoulders (that were covered in a leather jacket instead of expensive silks for once) rose and lowered in a smooth shrug.  “We’re sort of paid to not mind our own business.”  The hand, which had stayed on the back of Q’s neck until James seemed certain Q wouldn’t lurch to his feet, slid away.  

 

The moment it was gone, Q missed the hand, and he was leaning towards Bond before he caught himself and straightened. It didn’t matter that Bond was warm and smelled rather nice and Q was a shivering wreck from what was most likely now a fever. Q glanced at Bond and quickly looked away again. No. He was the Quartermaster of MI6. He didn’t need a bloody cuddle from a trained killer. And maybe if he repeated that ten thousand times then he would believe it.

 

It had to be whatever illness he’d contracted. He wouldn’t even be thinking this in the first place if he were at full health and in full command of his faculties. He shook his head as if to clear it and sighed. “Fine. Since Eve insisted.”

 

Bond’s look of wariness dissolved into one of those ‘butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth’ kind of smiles that usually heralded merry pandemonium.  God, Q wasn’t up for chaos…  Thankfully, James seemed mostly helpful rather than hectic as he stood and then said, “Glad you aren’t so out of your head that you can’t see reason, Quartermaster.”  James was standing very close, shoes almost brushing, so that Q had to look up powerful jean-clad legs to see the smile being directed down at him, and annoyingly cheery blue eyes, “Now, want to try getting up again?  With assistance this time?”  He extended both hands.  

 

If looks could kill, Bond would’ve been a pool of slag on the floor of Q’s flat. Instead, grumbling inaudibly, Q took James’s hands and stood slowly, feeling as James readjusted his grip naturally, so that hands on Q’s hands soon became hands on his forearm, then biceps, like a constantly adjusting machine designed to smoothly elevate him.  James’ strength was palpable.  In no time at all, Q was bracing himself against James’s chest as he fought for balance. “There,” he said petulantly.

 

The soup was still on the floor, but James looked pleased.  Considering that this was the same man that usually only looked pleased when all the tech in sight was destroyed, an embassy was on fire, or he’d been allowed to drive an expensive car, it wasn’t quite the expected expression.  “No need to look so grumpy, Q,” he chided playfully.  He was close enough that the rumble of the lower notes in his speech vibrated through Q’s body.  “You just succeeded in a great challenge: you are now bipedal.  Mostly.”

 

A Great War was being waged in Q as he stood that close to James. The logical part of his brain wanted the pesky agent to fuck off so Q could just go sleep. The sick part of him didn’t want James to go anywhere, much less stop almost holding him. It manifested in his face as a grumpy pout. “Don’t patronize me.”

 

Both eyebrows winged upwards towards James’ hairline, but the smile looked like it was in danger of becoming a laugh.  Still, James’ voice managed to sound surprisingly serious as he said, “I’d never do that, Q.”  007 was just full of surprises this evening.  “I will take you straight to hospital, though, if I suspect that you’re seriously ill,” he added, though, shifting his balance slightly to accommodate for Q’s wobbling.  

 

“No! No hospital.” Fear pushed through the sick haze to leave Q more than a little bit unnerved. “I’ll be fine… in a few days. No hospital.”

 

James looked a bit startled by the response.  His annoyingly playful expression had fallen away instantly, showing itself for the mask that it was.  “Fine, fine,” he gave in nonetheless, and perhaps now he did sound a bit like he was humouring Q, or at least soothing him, “but you realize that if you really do have the plague and you die on my watch, both of our hides are going to get pinned to M’s wall - and only I’ll be alive to feel it.”

 

“I’ll be around to haunt you,” Q replied, but he let James help him over to the table to sit down. The man seemed to do it all on reflex, moving Q easily along with him. “And it isn’t the plague. It’s probably flu. Weak lungs in winter. And Alec was sneezing.”

 

“Ah,” the older man said in a knowing tone.  He more or less pushed Q down into a chair, albeit quite gently for a man who did very few things gently, “I think I heard a bit about that.”  Still talking, James retreated to collect the container of soup, then return to dig through Q’s pantry unabashedly, “You do realize that you literally just ended up on the floor, though, right?  Like a fancy little puppet with its strings cut?”  

 

Q glared at James’s back. “My floor is quite comfortable,” he grumbled. “And what does it matter where I ended up? What do you care?”

 

James paused in searching for… whatever it was he was searching for… but didn’t turn around.  Q had only his back to look at.  After a noted pause, though, broad shoulders flexed and James turned around to reveal that he’d found a small pot.  He poured the soup out into it before replying calmly, “Well, I’d like to think I still have enough basic, functioning morals to not want a valued colleague concussing themselves or passing out on the floor.”  

 

That stunned Q into silence. ‘Valued colleague’... really? For all their bantering and, what Q could only assume based on his limited experience was flirting, James actually cared? Valued him? He chewed at his lip and watched as James stirred the soup. “Thank you,” Q said quietly. “My balance is shite when I’m sick, and that could have been worse.”

 

Instead of being a bastard about it, James took Q’s admittance and replied with grace, “Well, so long as this is normal for you when you have the flu, so I don’t have to worry about this escalating into seizures or something.”  By now, he’d turned on the heat and was stirring the contents of a soup that was smelling increasingly delicious and nothing like any take-out place that Q knew.  

 

“I’ve never been that bad.” Q took a careful breath so as not to start coughing again. “What kind of soup is that? It smells bloody delicious.” It was nice to watch James in the kitchen, something surprising to Q, but it seemed so natural. James was utterly at ease, though Q noticed subtle hints that he was still on alert, paying attention to the flat.  It some something to do with the way he moved his feet, his weight always evenly balanced between them - and as he finally eased the jacket from his shoulders, revealing a v-necked pullover beneath, it was easy to see the subtle flexing and easy of his muscles, as if it was natural for him to keep himself limber and ready.  

 

At the question, James turned just enough so that Q saw his face in profile - mostly, his Cheshire grin, eyes still turned down almost demurely towards the heating soup.  “Oh, it’s no kind of soup, really.  Just whatever I had on hand,” he replied blithely.  

 

Q dragged his eyes away from watching James’s arms beneath his shirt (he was only human and James was _fit_ ) to stare at his face. “You made the soup?” He finally asked, even though he knew it was the terribly obvious question.  Blue eyes flicked up to him.  The smile was still sphynx-like, but the smile had become perhaps a tad more warm and wry. “Why?”

 

“Well, I already had soup started at home when Eve rang me up,” James said, looking away again to focus on stirring the soup - which really shouldn’t have taken that much attention, but Bond seemed determined to mind it diligently as it warmed, “so I saw no reason not to bring it over.”  Almost idly, he paused to roll up both sleeves, tendons flexing now beneath tanned skin as he worked.  “The timing was good,” he finished simply.

 

It was incredibly distracting for Q to be sitting at the table ogling James while simultaneously coming down with something rather awful. He shivered almost unconsciously and tried to rub his own arms for warmth. “You didn’t have to. But you did. So… thank you. I would’ve had to eventually call Eve. I’m a bit low on groceries.”

 

“Don’t thank me yet,” James said, even as he apparently decided that he’d heated things up enough.  He turned off the heat and fished out some bowls, splitting the contents of the as-yet-unnamed soup between the first two he found.  “I haven’t even asked you if you have any allergies.  This is going to be rather awkward if you do, because when I said ‘it’s no kind of recipe,’ I meant that I put basically random things into a bowl and start cooking.”  

 

Q raised an eyebrow at James and then eyed the soup sceptically. “Last I checked I didn’t,” he said slowly. “Is it worth even asking what is in the soup? Or are you going to tell me to just try it?”

 

That earned him a rumbling chuckle even as James slid a bowl and spoon into place in front of him.  It certainly smelled good.  “I think that this batch has chicken stock, carrots, celery, garlic, onion, leftover cooked chicken, and more spices than I can easily rattle off,” James finally relented and admitted.  While his other hand deposited his own bowl across the table from Q’s, James’ left hand seemed to act on its own, catching James’ jacket and moving it with a smooth motion so that it somehow ended up across Q’s shoulders instead of the back of a chair.  As if he hadn’t even noticed what he’d done, James then moved to find himself a seat at the table and start eating.  

 

Q pulled the jacket closer around his shoulders and breathed in James’s cologne. It didn’t irritate his nose, thankfully. Instead it was incredibly comforting, and the jacket helped his back not feel quite so cold as he blew on the soup and took a bite. Q groaned hungrily as flavour exploded on his tongue. The chicken was soft enough it felt like it was melting in his mouth, and all the vegetables and seasonings blended perfectly. It might have been the best soup he’d ever tasted… and he wasn’t sure James’s ego could take that compliment.

 

“It’s good. Thank you,” He finally said.

 

Tucking into his own meal, James actually barely looked up.  Instead, he merely hummed acceptingly and kept eating, creating an unexpectedly companionable silence.  It wasn’t until James had cleaned out his bowl that conversation continued, the 00-agent lowering his spoon and glancing over Q with a speculative eye.  “Well, you look no worse than before, so I’m calling this a success,” he said with exactly the kind of pride that Q had been hoping to avoid. James went on quickly, however, to more serious topics, “I’m still don’t trust you not to keel over, though.  When was the last time you _slept_?”

 

Q glanced up, wary and with a sudden dread of what James was going to insist. “Why do you ask?” Because he knew the answer. It had been nearly four days since his last proper sleep; he had been napping in his office a few hours at a time rather than coming home to rest.

 

Bond looked him dead in the eye and said flatly, “Because you look like you’ve been run over by a truck.”  Before Q could get mad, James lifted and dropped one shoulder, and added without missing a beat or changing tone, “You’re still pretty as fuck, but I can all but hear your bones crying out for a nap.”

 

Q flushed bright pink that only had slightly to do with his rising temperature. He barely managed to not choke on his last few spoonfuls of soup as he tried to gather his very scattered thoughts. “Then… since you’re here already… I don’t think I would mind if you stayed.” Flushing a darker pink, he hastily added, “I might sleep if I’m not alone in the flat.”

 

The eyes on him turned considering, lids lowering to half-mast.  James was lounging back in his chair now, and it made him look like some large, sated lion considering something that was, perhaps, not quite prey.  When he spoke, he spoke surprisingly gently, though, “Q, I wasn’t going to just leave you alone after watching you fall over like that.  Who knows when you’d just topple over?”  

 

Something surprisingly warm and content spread through Q’s chest. Whatever this was or wherever they stood, some part of James cared. And that realization made him wish fervently that he wasn’t sick, if only so he could maybe kiss James. Instead, Q shivered and finally began feeling how sick he was. “Help make sure I don’t dent the flat?”

 

James was quick to oblige.  Still making no comment about his jacket, and how it had ended up around Q’s shoulders, James stole around the table with his usual prowling gate but then offered his elbow like a gentleman to help Q up.  Q took the offered arm with no fuss, and if he held a little tighter than he would have earlier, no one said anything.  Bond walked them away from the table slowly, easily taking Q’s every wobble and helping them both weather it - although he followed Q’s lead to find out which room was the bedroom.  It was a tad amusing to note that even the world-class spy couldn’t instantly assume which room was the bedroom.  “Easy does it, Q,” James murmured as they reached the bed, and James once again did that thing where he technically pushed Q down - but did it in a considerate sort of way so that it felt less pushy than it really was.  

 

The bed felt softer than Q had remembered, and warmer too, as if it were heated and waiting for him. His body was aching more now, or he was noticing more, and as Q shivered, he burrowed under the covers to get warm. So to have James pulling blankets off of him left him feeling certainly less charitable towards the agent than he had been.  “I think you already have quite enough of a fever,” James explained in a tone that managed to sound both reproachful and a bit apologetic at the same time.  He allowed Q the sheet.

 

Q whimpered but didn’t fight too much. He didn’t have much strength left anyway as his body struggled against the oncoming sickness. He was still cold, though, and in his illness he didn’t have the walls to stop the next words. “Could you… stay? Here? And… hold me?” God, he sounded pathetic. What was he even thinking?

 

But James paused.  He’d been leaned over the bed with one hand braced near Q’s hip, to tug at the sheet, but he stopped what he was doing and his head swivelled so that he could just stare at Q, which was mortifying.  At least James hadn’t bothered to turn on a light, so the only revealing brightness was from the distant kitchen - still, as many criminals had found out, there were no shadows deep enough to hide from those blue eyes.  When James stood instead of answering, turning his body as if to leave, Q felt an odd rush of longing and resignation. Because of course he wouldn’t. Q was sick, and James had already risked enough by coming by; he probably would get sick now too.

 

When James spoke, though, it wasn’t with an awkward “Sorry, but I’ll pass” - instead, the agent gave an unexpected reply of, “Water first.  I might have just given you a liquid lunch, but it was pretty salty.”  And with that, he turned and strolled out of the room, but sounds of him could be easily heard in the kitchen, finding a glass the same way he’d found everything else, and running water.  He did seem to take a detour on his way back, but Q could recognize the sound of him coming from the bathroom - which the man was obviously welcome to.  Still, after just a few more sounds of the older man unashamedly ferreting around, Bond was back - glass of water in one hand, and a thermometer in the other.  “All right, I’ll make you a deal,” James said brightly, coming to sit on the bed as easily as a cat who owned it, “You drink this whole glass of water and prove to me that you don’t have a deadly fever, and instead of me hauling your reluctant arse to the hospital, I’ll sit with you here.”

 

Q eyed him, curious, though still dejected at the thought of just sitting with James, as if Q were an asset to be guarded. The thermometer was handed over, with James raising an eyebrow expectantly until Q took it with a sigh and popped it under his tongue.

 

“All right, no talking for three minutes,” James said, mouth then quirking up at one side as he added, “If you can manage that.”  

 

Q glared at him, eyes narrowed in a clear nonverbal, “I’m in charge of your equipment and am fine sending you out with old gum instead of bullets” way.  It looked like James got the message, although the fact that the agent suddenly grinned more brightly was not exactly a healthy reaction.  Glancing briefly at his watch - the muscles and tension of his hand and forearm shifting with unfair grace in even that small motion - James wandered around Q’s room.  He did seem to be looking for something, but before he could be labelled as actually nosy, he grabbed a pillow and seemed contented.  The man was very confusing.  Bond grew even more perplexing as he proceeded to leave the room and come back with another pillow, although his motives became clear as he then approached Q and wrapped a hand around his shoulder, tugging at him with a brief, “Lean forward, Q, so I can make up for stealing your blankets.”

 

Leaning into the hand, Q allowed James to help manoeuvre him up. He could feel the warmth through his thin t-shirt, the casual strength of the agent next to him. An agent whom, his sick mind supplied, Q would very much like to sleep with. Stupid sick brain.  

 

By the time the pillows were in place (still too few of them to really let Q properly sit up, he had to note), the thermometer had taken its reading.  James plucked it out and frowned at it a bit, but ultimately sighed and put it on the bedside table, declaring, “Well, 38 degrees isn’t healthy but it won’t kill you.  So I suppose that means I won’t be dragging your sorry self to see a doctor.” James next handed Q the cup of water, like a very important afterthought. Even though the water was room temperature, it still felt cool and soothing going down his throat, and Q drank slowly and steadily until he drained the glass.

 

Q swallowed the last of the water and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank god,” he muttered as he leaned back against the pillows. “Too many bad memories in hospitals.”

 

“Now that’s a story I think I think I’ll leave until you’re a bit healthier to tell it,” James said, showing surprising control over his spy-tendencies - usually, 007 was the kind of man who’d track down a secret without mercy.  Before Q could find a way to respond, though, James was nudging at him again, not letting him relax.  “Budge up - or over,” he gave commands that really made no sense.  The next words clarified things, though: “I suppose it depends on whether you want me to sit next to you or behind you.”

 

His ears must have been infected. There was no way he had heard James properly. “What?” Q said before moving forward. “I-I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

 

James stopped what he was doing, although he didn’t back away, meaning his face was pretty close as he turned to give Q a steady, slightly concerned look.  “If you’re not comfortable with either option, now is the time to speak up, Q, before I toe my shoes off.”  

 

“That’s not-I mean- I am comfortable with this. I just couldn’t figure out what you were doing.” His flush was definitely fever related and in no way connected to a very hot, intelligent man being in his bed for a cuddle.

 

God, if James was handsome when he was frowning, he was devastating when his expression eased into a warm, understanding smile.  “Good.  Then I’ll just slide in behind you, since the pillows are just right for me anyway,” he said as if this were the most obvious and natural thing in the world.  

 

Q’s flush deepened, and he focused on his slow and steady breathing as he tried to memorize that particular smile. It wasn’t fair that James was so damn handsome.  It got worse when James, having slipped out of his shoes and moving around in socks, knelt up on the bed to get into the place he apparently wanted to be.  That momentarily put him up on his knees at Q’s side, once again a leonine figure of muscle - the kind of pose you waxed poetic about, or made statues of, even if James soon began the awkward shuffling of two people trying to occupy the same space on the same bed.  Bond really was quite handsy when he put his mind to take care of someone, apparently, and most of the movement was done entirely on his part - from the moment he cupped the back of Q’s neck, fingers sliding into his hair to urge him forward, to the moment when James relaxed against the pillows and hooked a seemingly lazy arm around Q’s middle to drag his Quartermaster up against him.  Powerful thighs bracketed Q’s hips, flexing once before James seemed to settle, the sheet drawn up to Q’s waist.

 

Q was breathless by the time James settled down again, but the closeness of their bodies was already doing much to help him feel more relaxed. James was solid and strong, and of all things, _safe_. Q felt completely safe in the arms of a man who killed for a living, and it seemed the only thing he could focus on, other than the steady beat of James’s heart; that he could feel through his shirt.

 

“This okay, Q?” came the unexpectedly quiet rumble from behind him.  The tone was not quite contrite, but it was lacking all of its usual smugness and teasing.  James’ hands had both slid away so that they were just rested on his thighs, completing the flesh-and-bone throne that Q was perched in.

 

The careful inquiry made Q’s eyes burn with something that wasn’t tears, nope definitely not tears. “Actually,” Q replied before reaching for James’s arm and pulling it back around him. “This is better. And…” god he was going to give away all his secrets at this rate, “I’m partial to fingers in my hair.”

 

There was a long moment of what might have been stunned silence, which was painful to endure - but then it was broken by warm laughter that vibrated right through Q’s entire body.  “Oh, you do, do you?” James went back to teasing, but was it just Q, or did it sound more fond than before?  The arm around his middle snugged a bit tighter, and the other momentarily joined it - but only to lightly brush the backs of Bond’s fingers against Q’s forearm.  Such a small movement…  It shouldn’t have been in any way intimate, especially considering the level of sexual exhibitionism that James had a history of getting into on missions.  Somehow, though, that small, gentle, brief movement made Q feel treasured and adored. The arm around his middle helped him feel more secure and grounded, in less danger of losing himself to his fever. And James was so warm. It was chasing away the chill.

 

And then it got even better as the hand finished its feather-light caress, and did indeed move upwards towards Q’s hair.  It restricted itself to just tucking at a stray lock at first, as James murmured, “I think that it might be too late to ask this, but I probably should anyway - but is this something that you’re going to regret asking me to do later?  Since we’re colleagues.”  

 

Gentle was not often a word Q associated with James. But he was going to have to start using it more. “Honestly? The way you flirt I’ve been thinking you wanted more than colleagues for a while. I should be asking you that question.” He had no filter left between his brain and his mouth, it seemed, and James was so warm and comforting.

 

He got another chuckle for his troubles, this one so quiet that it was more vibration than sound.  “Great, now I wonder if I should be apologizing,” he replied wryly, but he let his fingers sink just a bit more into Q’s hair.  He was lightly stroking Q’s head now, still a marked tentativeness in his movements - this from a man who was tentative about basically nothing in his life. Q leaned into the touch with a soft groan of appreciation. Every coil of tension in his muscles was relaxing, his earlier ire at Moneypenny and Alec, and even James, fading.

 

“This is nice,” he murmured as he snuggled into a more comfortable position, half curled against James’s body.

 

“Good to know that this at least isn’t crossing any boundaries that I haven’t crossed already,” James joshed lightly as he adjusted his legs, tangling slightly - inevitably - with Q’s long limbs.  His fingers carded their way through Q’s curls with a bit more certainty.  Then James was leaning his head close to Q’s ear, voice suddenly low and hushed like the earth’s own hum, “Tell me what else is nice.”  

 

“Mmmmm, you are,” Q murmured with a grin. “You’re warm and solid. Strong. Comfortable.” His eyes were starting to close but he didn’t want to miss a second of this. Bloody hell, he could fully smell James’s cologne; it was like a scent blanket.

 

The words must have been like a key in a lock for James, because if he’d been holding back before, he stopped now.  Q felt all of Bond’s strength as the man inhaled and then exhaled, fingers sinking into Q’s hair right to the scalp - a bit of pressure was all it took to pull Q’s left ear down against his chest.  Stubble rasped lightly against Q’s hair as James, still holding Q’s head firmly, tucked Q up under his chin.  The fingers in Q’s hair slacked, but only so they could return to sifting through the strands, mission accomplished.  “Still comfortable?” he murmured in a tone that said he knew the answer.  

 

Q could hardly form words, much less a coherent sentence. James’ heartbeat was just under his ear now, a steady thumping that had his own trying to sync to it in minutes. So rather than try to speak, he nodded slightly and snuggled closer into the warm cocoon of James’s body.

 

As Q’s breaths even out and he drifted from comfort into true sleep, James kept up his gentle petting, scarred fingers losing themselves in sleek, dark curls.  He periodically buffed his chin against the top of Q’s head, always lightly enough not to disturb the sleeper in his grip.  This was probably going to get him sick by tomorrow, he realized, but James had a strong immune system - tested in multiple countries against a plethora of ailments - and since Q had become rather important to him… it was worth it.  

 

Because predatory creatures like 00-agents - like Bond in particular - didn’t share food with just anyone, and while James would happily fuck whomever he needed to, it was a rare day indeed where he just sat with a warm body wrapped up in the shadow of his limbs.  This was what trust was, and he’d guard it.  

 

Besides that, if Q had asked James the same questions that James had asked him - “Tell me what else is nice” - James would have answered, “You, Q.  Definitely you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Chinese translation now available: <http://www.mtslash.me/thread-278535-1-1.html>


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